Acclaimed author Emery Lord pens another gorgeous story of best friends, new love, and second chances. * "Will inspire readers." —SLJ, starred review It's. It's been a year since Paige's first boyfriend died in a swimming accident and it's time she rejoined the real world. But when she meets Ryan's sweet but so nerdy cousin, Max, he opens up her world and Paige's plans start to change. I recomend this book to any teenage romance lover. The Start of Me and You book. Read reviews from the world's largest community for readers. It's been a year since it happened—when Paige Hancock's.
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The Start of Me and You by Emery Lord, , available at Book Depository with free delivery worldwide. Editorial Reviews. From School Library Journal. Gr 7 Up—Aspiring screenwriter Paige Hancock is determined to redefine herself one year after her boyfriend. The Start of Me and You by Emery Lord (review); Karen Coats · Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books · Johns Desperate for her junior year to mark a new start, Paige opens herself up to possibilities, including athletic, Download PDF.
The Start of Me and You tells the story of Paige, a girl in a small town whose boyfriend of two months died the year before. She makes a plan of how to move on with her life — for real this time — and has the comfort of the best support system along the way. A lot of my love for this book is because of the main character, Paige.
Paige is an introvert and a planner. She struggles a lot with facing her fears and allowing herself to be happy. It was so easy to get sucked into her narrative.
I just wanted to hug her so many times! She was the kind of character I related to so much, I feel like the book taught me some things about myself and how I still have to grow and challenge myself to get out of my comfort zone. I longed for my Post It notes because so many of the passages were just so poignant and fitting and so me. In friendship, we are all debtors. We all owe each other for a thousand small kindnesses, for little moments of grace in the chaos.
But it still feels good to repay them — even in the tiniest increments. You know what that is? Wabi can mean rustic or stark or transient. Sabi is like. Or fading. In fleeting moments and even in decay. Have you been? But I. Some of them drop off right above the ocean, and others taper downhill toward the shore. I think I imagined the California coast with surfers running headlong into the waves and with pops of colorful umbrellas.
I stand on the cliff with mist rising from the ocean almost straight below me, and, even after a week of this, it stuns me. The natural world makes the finest architects and designers and artists look like silly amateurs.
I anticipated the few birds that scamper near me, which is why I pocketed some crumbs of waffle from my breakfast. They peck at the torn pieces on the ground while I dig into my purse for the thing I came here to discard.
The pills are smooth to the touch. I push my finger against one pill to slide it out. I fling my arm forward, hand opening for the release. Turning my back to the Pacific, I start toward the pottery shop. Magic, I tell you. I lucked into the job, really.
On my second day in Verona Cove, I sat on the bench outside the shop hoping to entertain myself for a while once it opened. Her apologies flurried between explanations—that she got into this groove with her own pottery the night before, that she overslept again.
We sat for the next hour, me painting a bowl for my mom and Whitney organizing the glaze paints into rainbow formation. She kept apologizing, but I told her not to worry about it, that sleep and I are only casual acquaintances. She joked that maybe I should work in the shop 12 some mornings so she could sleep in. Actually, I said. And, well, you can probably guess what my answer was because here I am, digging for the shop keys in my bag.
Sitting there are a little girl with pink sneakers and a guy about my age with dark hair. Even from a distance, I can tell his hair is not a styling choice but the result of a perpetually overdue haircut— kind of rumpled, with the start of curls. This is not a cool outfit or an uncool outfit, just practical.
The girl bobs her head. The guy clears his throat.
I mean, like, on first-time offenders. Who may have created some, ahem, unsanctioned art on the local plant life.
Asking for a friend, of course. Set it on fire in a huge saucepan. Laugh as it melts. On the rare morning that I feel almost awake, I give the alarm clock a stately Viking funeral in my mind. And there it is again, screeching. My feet trudge down the stairs. Then shower, load of laundry, unload the dishwasher, work. Today, today, today! I filled up my chore chart, and you promised. I did promise.
She crosses her arms. Today is Monday. I have to be at the restaurant by eleven, and my older brother and sister are already at their jobs. So I grounded them both. Toast it is. I hand Leah the banana and a dull knife. She holds the knife in her right hand and braces the banana with her left, tucking the tips of her fingers under like I taught her.
Our dad taught me, in the kitchen of his restaurant. He also showed me what would happen if I did not use this technique to protect my fingers from the blade. I was nine. It was the greatest thing ever. When the bread pops up, I plate it for Leah. She smears the peanut butter. Behind us, Isaac wanders into the kitchen. A chapter book eclipses his face.
Isaac can walk while reading. Like, he can walk better while reading than the average person can walk while doing nothing else.
He sidesteps street signs, climbs stairs, and dodges pedestrians. He peers at us, and the refrigerator door is reflected in his glasses. And look at the chore chart. Who has all their checks for every week this month? Anybody can sort laundry and set the table. I resist pinching Isaac, hard. She does everything she can, and I never have to ask her twice. She signed permissions slips. She made waffles every Monday morning to soften the blow of the weekend ending.
She put away Christmas decorations on December But that was before we became a seven-person family. Everything about my dad was big. His height, his laugh, his personality. Now I look at pictures of the eight of us and, when I imagine him not there, the whole picture is off balance. And so are we. I wanted to see Frankenstein zigzags across his neck. My mom mostly stays in her bedroom now. To her lungs: In, out. In, out. Like it takes all her time and energy to exist.
On my way upstairs, Bekah calls for me from the room she shares with Leah. I take a sip of my coffee. My older brother works at Cove Coffee as a shift manager, and I can hear the familiar noises in the background: whirring milk steamers and choppy voices. I specifically took the early shift so I could be home in time for you to leave for the lunch shift.
I forgot I have to take Leah somewhere. I just might wind up leaving them on the side of the road like old patio furniture or a moldy couch. With a cardboard sign that says, Free: Take. What if Isaac gets it into his mind to perform a science experiment or Bekah decides to meet up with friends at the pool without telling anyone?
Would Mom even know? Maybe it would make her snap out of it. Leaving them here could be the same as leaving two kids totally alone. I stand outside the barely cracked door for a moment before opening it. Since my dad died, my mom has spent more time behind this door than she ever did while he was alive.
She smiles weakly. They used to flush from laughing. From running around in the yard with Leah and Isaac. Although she does get up for church most Sundays. It seemed so silly, so pointless. Until I looked down at my mint-green or petal-pink nails in class: one beautiful, glossy thing in my life. My friends added the first colors to my black-and-white world.
Tessa nudged my arm. You could rejoin one of the groups you did freshman year. Chorus or French Club or something. I go to yoga and the Carmichael.
She had to be twenty-one to get into the Carmichael to see all the best indie bands perform. I think the staff knew she was in high school, but they also knew how serious she was about music. She rarely invited me or anyone else. They were personal: between her and the band onstage. Exercise and concerts are not cocurriculars. They are if you want to work for a record label and teach yoga on the side, she said. What does that mean? It means trying to approach new experiences with no preexisting judgments.
Yes, I said. Join a group at school and go to a big party—seemed manageable enough. But two items made for a pretty anemic plan. I would need more. I should probably get home, I said, glancing at my phone. This week, Wednesday and Sunday were highlighted yellow in my planner, indicating dinner with my dad.
Tessa gathered her things. Spinach and feta lasagna, I think. Since the divorce, my dad had developed a flair for creative cuisine, with his successes equaled by mighty failures. This delighted Tessa, never knowing what would be served or how. It was less funny to me, since those were my odds for two out of seven dinners a week. My younger sister was infamous for her aversions—to green vegetables, dairy, and acting like a rational human being.